When we left off last week: I
had only two minutes remaining in my five minute session alone with this noted
black casting director. I ignored the rambunctious
voice in my head. It was only Martha
Baily Burnett’s histrionics about the $8.00 per minute I’d paid to see Twinkie,
being more than many these days make an hour.
After successfully locking Martha in a rococo armoire, I took a very
expensive moment to consider Twinkie’s arresting question. Where do
I see myself? $4.00 worth of seconds
later, I had nothing but rolling tumble weeds and the chirp of crickets to
block the sound of Martha Bailey Burnett’s outsized clown shoes kicking the
armoire door. Nothing, zippo, goose egg,
nada my recent all-purpose (too frequent) response to a major life
question. How can I answer Twinkie about
the present when I’m preoccupied pondering questions from the past? Like, why did
I stop performing stand-up?
What could be better than filling arenas with
laughter while opening for musical stars like Diana Ross, Anita Baker, James
Brown and Aretha Franklin;
working out new material on the main stage in
Catskills resorts
and Las Vegas casinos, the bonhomie of hilarious co-workers
combined with free drinks? Well, a
lucrative three picture deal, my own hit TV show headed to syndication and
never ending residuals or at least a string of financially rewarding failed
pilots while I awaited lightning in a bottle.
I dreamed of being so successful that my comedy laurels would allow me
to appear on any and every late night national talk show, promoting my latest
movie, Broadway appearance or (tax sheltered) not-for –profit foundation, and
never even crack a joke. Perfectly
styled and coiffed, I’d sit and reminisce with the host about our recent golf
game (I don't golf but I can dream can't I?) ,
our early days in comedy clubs or my banner behavior of a comedy genius in full
mental breakdown: running naked down Sunset Blvd. waving a gun.
“NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!” screamed Impatient Yearnings, a
strident voice (among the seven) in my head. Impatient Yearnings don't fool around. She'd soon stride into my long gathering fog of marital angst and with Amazon strength toss a three decade marriage out the door. Anyway, with uncanny expertise, she took advantage of my (admittedly short
sighted) professional frustrations and single handedly cast a seventeen year
comedy career adrift. With my Brooklyn
College School of Performing Arts B.A. assisted by additional training (Lincoln Center Directors Lab, Women's Project Directors' Forum, SDC, Frank Silvera Writers Workshop Directors, etc) as
a serious director, I jumped from the lion’s den of comedy into the shark tank,
NYC theatre. I cast my net Off-
Broadway, umm, Off-Off- Broadway; OK - a community playhouse hidden in the Roy
Wilkins recreation center in Jamaica, NY.
Who knew in spite of my extensive theatre experience, I’d spend the
coming years competing with new to NY fledgling director wanna-be’s, for non- paying positions! Where do I
see myself? I see me choking Impatient
Yearnings.
To be continued...
